Category Archives: Men

Mother gave out her orders for dad to go pick up some of her special bread for dinner. The wide white baguette was the only thing she claimed to be able to eat:

“My stomach is allergic to that other peasant crap!” She, of course, was referring to the bricks of wheat bread that dad and I could devour kilos at a time, given enough garlic and salt. “And why don’t you take the small one with you? Keep her from getting under my feet?”

Dad found me reading inside Marinka’s closet, where I had built myself a beanbag-like chair out of a pile of dirty laundry. This was the only place in our two bedroom apartment where the constant stream of kitchen noises sounded reasonably muffled.

“Hey, monkey!” dad cracked open one of the doors. “Wanna join Papka on a smoking break?”

Before I removed my ear plugs I’d made from cotton balls, I studied the handsome man’s face. He — was my father. Floating above me, nearly at the ceiling, as it seemed, he reminded me of those romantic leads in the old, black-and-white Soviet films: usually some Labor Hero or the best and the brightest of the Party for whom love always arrived after success, and always in a form of the least likely — somewhat homely and nerdy — girl. Dad’s eyes were radiating with tanned wrinkles. His lips were resisting the type of a grin that happened whenever he tried his damn hardest not to act amused at my expense.

“A smoking break? Well. Yeah, sure.” I shrugged one of my shoulders, slipped the index fingers in between the pages of The Master and Margarita, and placed the book face down. (All the reading for our Literature Class I had completed back during my summer at the Pioneer Camp. Since then, I’d been reading everything I could find in my parents’ library, in alphabetical order. Considering I was still making my way through “B’s”, I hadn’t gotten too far. But it took no more than a few chapters to know that this novel could get me into serious trouble.)

Dad stepped back to give me enough room to slip out of my office, and after I wrangled myself out of Marinka’s dirty bathrobe, he examined me head to toe and said: “The consensus is: You might need a jacket.”

“Yeah? Should I wear rain boots, too?”

With one of his forearms, dad moved the tulle curtains and looked out of the window. “Ooh. Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re right. Looks like it might rain.”

I knew that. Lying down on the floor, on my stomach, I was already fishing for the matching rain boot under our bunk bed. In secret, I was hoping that my shoe, of boringly dull rubber, had been lost forever and that I would get to wear Marinka’s pair: They were all shiny, with bright flowers; almost brand new and made in the very exotic country of China. But the dark thing in the furthest corner turned out to be my missing rain boot. That’s alright, I thought. I will inherit the Chinese pair in no time!

“Are we gonna bring an umbrella, too?”

“Nah,” dad looked out of the window again. “We aren’t the type to melt, are we?!”

Shaking the last of the dust bunnies from my abandoned rain boot, I felt a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Dad chose me! He could’ve gone alone — but he chose my company! The days of his endless travels were long gone. The furthest he would depart these days would be to work on blown over phone lines that connected his Army Unit to what I assumed to be the Kremlin. Still, every evening, the man looked for an excuse to stay out of the house. Smoking was one of them.

As I began to mold into a serious runner at school and refused to wear dresses (besides my mandatory school uniform), dad and I began venturing out on walks. Perhaps it was because my funny predisposition tickled my old man. Being outnumbered had to be an already rough reality long before all three women of our household began menstruating on the same schedule. So, I imagine it was a bit of a relief to discover that at least his youngest offspring could wish for no better occupation than to climb trees, outrun boys; bang nails into drywalls, go fishing or take endless walks through the town. And to make our likeness even more daunting, I wasn’t one to talk much either.

Naturally, I didn’t go questioning as to where the two of us were now heading. Not until we passed the gates of the town’s police station, already shut for the day — its only lightbulb above the main doorway reflecting in the wet asphalt like the second moon — that I asked:

“How come we’re in a hurry?”

Dad’s gait, always evenly paced as if he were marching in the Red Square parade, felt rushed. Normally, he was more aware of the patter of my feet, echoing his own footsteps. But that day, he was moving faster than I expected from our typical “smoking break”. In parts, I’d had to jog a little to keep up.

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew the smoke over this left shoulder, away from me, and said: “Sorry, comrade! We’re picking up your mother’s bread.”

“Well. That’s understood,” I said, then zipped up my windbreaker and got ready to continue jogging, as if on a mission this time. This business of mother’s needs was to be taken seriously. Even I had learned that, by then.

“Understood?” dad smiled. In my response, I had given myself the masculine gender.

“Under-stood,” I nodded, then jogged slightly ahead of him to get a better look at his face. The same grin of his trying hard not to embarrass me was brewing on his lips.

I’ve never seen him here before, waiting tables at this joint I frequent. In the City ruled by the most beautiful gay boys who always bitch-slap my occasionally fearful face with the courage of their specificity, I have finally found my corner. It’s calm here, and I am still completely anonymous. I make it a point to be as sweet as Amelie when I come in, and I am always a generous tipper. But no one knows my name. They let me be. And that’s somehow soothingly perfect.

Diagonally from its floor-to-ceiling window panes, I can see at least half a dozen of rainbow flags. The parking is a bitch around here, but the stroll is always worth it. And no matter what comrade of mine I’ve introduced to this place — a single mother with an unruly child or an ancient director with my father’s face — they all seem to find comfort, if not peace here.

“Reminds me of a Noo Yok di-nah!” a Russian from Brooklyn once correctly tagged the reminiscence of this joint while falling into the only round booth, and nesting his bulky body next to my bony elbow. I could see it in his eyes: A chord has been struck.

And it is true: The leather-covered booths, plastic tables and chairs are squeezed against each other with economical consideration. Identical bar stools, bolted onto the floor, look like a net of mushrooms sprouted after the autumn rain; and I’ve once, especially tipsy over a boy, spun on one of them while waiting for my smoothie with red cabbage. (Shit! I’ve become a hardcore hippie, in this California livin’ of mine!)

The UFO’s of lamp shades with single, off-white bulbs inside each light the place up with a certain light of nostalgia; but every kind face slipping in and out of the swinging doors of the kitchen reminds me that I ain’t in New York — any more!

But will you look at them?! Just look at these faces!

There is the Zenned-out brown boy with gentle manners who insists on diamond studs that sparkle from underneath his backwards-turned baseball cap. Underneath his crew-necks or fit t-shirts, he hides a fit but lithe body. Sometimes, I catch him texting underneath the only cash register; but from where I sit, in those moments, he simply looks possessed by bliss, behind the tiny glass display of whole grain muffins.

The only older gentleman working regular shifts here has a quite voice. He is not as effeminate as the other waiters here, neither is he flamboyant as most of the clientele. When he tends to my table, I cannot always distinguish the content of his speech, but his Spanish accent is lovely.

So, I grin and stretch my arms to the other side of the tiny table. “I’m fine! Thank you,” I purr, and wait: Is this the day he’ll finally smile at me?

But this boy — is pretty, and I have never seen him before. Dressed in the most perfect caramel skin, he has one of those faces that makes me regret not having a talent or even any predisposition for drawing. His body seems perfect, and a pair of rolled-up jean shorts reveals a runner’s legs. He carries just a touch of feminine grace, and oh, how the boys love him! The entire length of my 3-hour writing session, they come in to quietly watch him from corner tables. Some hug him while sliding their hands along his belt-line. A sweet boy, he doesn’t seem to mind. Men in couples flirt with him discretely, but I recognize their desire — for his youth and goodness — underneath the nonchalant gestures.

A woman with a complexion I would kill to have when I reach her age, has entered the joint shortly after me. From the bits of overheard conversation, I figure out: She lives in Laurel Canyon. Has “a partner”. A writer.

“130,000 people lost power last night,” she reads the newsfeed to the pretty boy, as he flocks her table. He seems to possess an equal curiosity toward both genders; and if there is any hint of discrimination, it’s in his innocent desire to be in the proximity beauty.

Oh, right. I nearly forgot: Last night was messy. When the winds initially picked up, I was willing to believe in the magic on some beautiful female creature blowing in, with the wind, to save this last hope of this forsaken place. But then, my night turned tumultuous; and in my chronic want to flee from here, I thought of the more unfortunate souls, with not as much as a shelter of their car. I checked myself in.

The morning ride to this joint was rough: Fallen over trees, freaked out drivers and broken traffic lights. But once I landed in my booth — and the angelic, pretty boy approached me — I remembered that I was always the last to give up on human goodness. So, I hung around and recuperated in beauty.

Never-ever in my life, had I ventured outside in a pair of pj’s. But this pair of sweats, that had previously been purchased in the sleepwear department of H&M, had somehow seemed to be a perfect choice for the recent change in the weather. They were that pretty color of a Siberian cat’s fur — bluish-gray and fluffy — and so fucking cozy, the rainy Saturday morning had insisted on calling them out of my closet. Plus they fit over my knee-high Uggs without any bulky stretch in the material. And I kept thinking no one would be able to tell the primary purpose of this attire, so I left the house.

He himself was wearing a pair of black, shiny tights with zippers at his ankles, which I’m pretty sure belonged to the women’s portion of a Lululemon store that he had raided a week before.

“Do you know any other guy who could pull these off?” my running buddy had puffed himself up, after berating my attire.

I didn’t want to break it to him. We were about to run through West Hollywood, so anything went.

“Are you gonna use these as sails?” he turned the attention back to me. “Just to pick up some speed, or something?”

These men, who make us, women, feel like we don’t measure up to their standards: Why do they find it humane, or even appropriate, to express their opinions out loud?

I was proud of my pants though, and I have pleasantly rediscovered them this fall. When someone mentioned we were expecting a rainy weekend, I had already been wearing these things around the house for a week. And on this rainy Saturday, they were finally being taken outside.

It was a perfect San Franciscan morning. The street — with cute boutiques and family-owned restaurants; a deli with excellent (although overpriced) food; a used bookstore and a funky newsstand on the corner — was paved with a wet and shimmering asphalt. A few sleepy humans came out into the rain to smell the newly rinsed city and its rarely smog-less air. Two pale young men from a Noah Baumbach future cast were the only ones sitting on the patio and mellowly watching the traffic of shiny, rinsed cars. Tiny drops of drizzle were tangled up in the tips of their overgrown hair. They looked like dandelion heads.

The owner of a health store I never visited before was sliding open the rusty gate. A pretty brunette in rubber rain boots, she, too, looked mellow and somewhat tired.

“Good morn!” she said, sounding like a girl who would never outgrow her college-day quirkiness. “Love your pants!”

Yes, it was a perfect San Franciscan morning. Except that, I was on my street, in Hollywood.

A giant cup of steaming ginger tea, wide enough to wash my face in, began to sound perfect. I strolled down to the end of the block and stepped inside my favorite coffee joint, with Bohemia-inspired set-up and late night hours suitable for the insomniacs and dreamers.

The light was mellow, streaming down from mismatching lamps, through vintage lampshades and colored lightbulbs. A mirror ball was slowly spinning in the corner. A feline female voice was meowing over the speakers.

“Bjork?” I guessed.

That’s when I overheard the girl:

“I mean: That is just SO unattractive!”

The male barista, who leaned against the counter to listen to the venting female customer, greeted me with a nod.

“Do you know what you’d like?”

“Um? Do you have any ginger tea?” I said.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “But lemme check.”

Carefully, from behind my icicle locks of wet hair, I snuck a peak at the girl: She was pretty and petite. A cute brunette in an oversized, Flashdance inspired sweater slipping off her naked shoulder, she leaned her body into the bar and arched her back. The thong, that her position had revealed above her jeans’ belt, seemed pre-staged. Her hair was messy, wavy, almost nappy, a la Sienna Miller, in her hipster self. Her jewelry was so H&M: giant rings and layered necklaces! She was consumed with scrolling text messages with a single thumb on her Blackberry’s screen.

“Yeah. I don’t think this is about me,” I thought.

The mellow barista returned:

“I don’t have any ginger tea. But I have tea — with ginger?” He linger.

“That’ll do!” I said.

Our transaction was over. The girl returned to venting:

“I mean, just look at this one! How can he be texting me such things?

She brushed her sharp nails through the nappy hair and handed over the Blackberry. She seemed distraught, although slightly showy.

“What are your fantasies?” a message came in last night, and it lullabied me with my waking dreams shortly before the other kind would take over.

I sorted through the collection in my mind, considered each dream, lifting it up against the nightlight; twirled it, until every stone sparkled with light; and I measured each one against my skin like a pair of long, mysterious, gypsy earrings.

I selected a few:

“Being naked on a beach in Greece. Ditto in Barcelona — but with a lover,” I responded.

There are so many places teasing me with their exotic promises. But mostly, I am interested in chasing just another variety of peace. I am not really after a particular slowness of time, but a serenity that comes with knowing that I have finally surrendered.

Surrendered to what?

To stubborn kindness no matter how difficult it may initially be, with a stranger; or with a new lover. To the gentle nature of my motherhood. To the esteem of knowing that I have found, pursued and succeeded in my calling. Or, at least, that I’ve given it all — my best.

Yes! That’s it! That I have given it my all — my very best. And that I have loved, always and selflessly.

Last night, I rummaged for a bit longer, found another dream I hadn’t examined in while, dusted it off with my breath and lifted it above my pillow. Lazily, the teardrops of amethyst-purple captured the light with their prisms, divided it and bounced it back at me. It made me calm, with possibility.

“Sitting around a bonfire with gypsy bards,” I sent off another message to my interviewer. “Then, learning to ride their horses, at sunrise.”

It would be like a magnanimous homecoming, and I swore I could smell the morning dew as I would ride through the fields of another place with its exotic promises, in laughing company of my people.

“What about your sexual fantasies?” the voice on the other end of town cut through the city’s diameter with an instantaneous message.

Oh. I wasn’t even thinking about that. Certainly, there would be love in every one of these adventures. There would have to be! Because I had always loved — and selflessly! And I had assumed that to my interviewer, my vision was just as clear.

Still, I opened another compartment of my dreams’ jewelry box and looked inside. I haven’t rummaged through this one in a while. The precious stones caught the light and sparkled lazily. Which one? Which one?

“Oh, my!” I sent off another message across town. “I don’t even know where to start.”

It used to be a better hobby of mine, in youth. With every new love looking over my shoulder, I would visit this increasing collection of my fantasies, dust them off with my breath and twirl them, above us and in between.

“How about this one?” I would look at my beloved’s face through the polished surface of a giant garnet or a convoluted insides of an amber. His face would illuminate with the colors of passion and hunger.

“Yes! I’d like to try that!” he’d say.

And so: We would.

And it would be so liberating to share a dream, to discover each other through the intimacy of our secret desires. Revealing my fantasies would arouse me with trepidations, especially if their exploration unveiled the braver sides of me. If (or when) my lovers reluctantly reveled their own secrets, I would be open-minded and humbled. And I would honor them, with the same preciousness my lovers had shown me.

Because I had loved, always — and selflessly! And I had always given it my all — my very best!

At the end of every affair, the secret would remain safe with me. I wouldn’t throw it across the room in an argument with the departing. I wouldn’t flaunt it in front of the lovers that followed. Instead, I would lock it up, in a compartment with my own fantasies; and I would unlock them only when missing that old love, or when seeking inspiration, with a new one.

Last night, I stared at the lifted cover and the pile of stones full of stories. But in that pile of stories, I seemed unable to find what I was looking for.

“I think they’ve changed,” I confided in my witness. It surprised me that in a box full of treasures, there was no angle or a cut, no shade, no sparkle, no formerly adored setting that taunted me with a desire to explore it: to lift it up against the nightlight and let it lullaby me to sleep shortly before the other kind of dreams found its way.

“Maybe, I’m not ready yet,” I thought to myself.

But that didn’t sound true at all.

“I think — I have changed,” I confessed to my interviewer.

My witness beheld:

“How?”

“I think, my only fantasy now — is the goodness of my men.”

The confession echoed with so much truth and self-awareness, I immediately locked down the lid to my secrets. This was something new, something clear — something very precious. Because I have loved, always — and selflessly…

Because I have always given it my all — my very best! — I was finally willing to ask for it, in return. I was ready for my goodness to come back to me, after being reflected through the prisms of my lovers’ decency.

My main fantasy was found in a new desire to be partnered with someone worthy of my goodness — someone good, on his own terms.

Last night, the other kind of dreams would take over shortly. But this time around, there would be no nightmares at all.

I just found that out, last night, during one of our weekly phone conversation that I have been committing to Motha Russia for the last few years. It’s the least I could do, I always thought: to take the initiative in maintaining this long distance relationship that had affected every romantic choice in my own biography. Because dad was the man with whom I was blindly in love, for the first two decades of my life. So, da: It was the least I could do.

As someone with the burden of having left her beloveds behind, with the guilt of exceeding her parents’ lifestyle — survivor’s guilt — I have been dialing an endless line-up of numbers every Sunday (by the Russian clocks): My Prodigal Sundays. And after a while, I’ve given up on premeditating the concepts of these phone calls: For they never turn out to be redemptive, or even philosophical.

“Hello, what’s new?” I would ask, every time, surprising myself with how mundane I could be despite my lists of questions about my heritage, my character, my past.

“Nothing,” dad would answer, echoing the matter-of-factness of it all.

(It’s offensively insane if you think about it, really: After more than a decade of separation, you would think beloveds could concern themselves with anything other than gas prices (for me) and bread prices (for him). It must be why, then, I had always found fiction to be more perfectly narrated than life.)

But then on the other hand, my dad was Superman. For years, he seemed immune to suffering. Between the stoic nature I myself tap into sometimes, in my own character, and the military training of his lifetime career, he never vented, never sought faults; never passed a judgement on the humans he had vowed to protect. So, I’ve had the audacity to assume he was stronger than the rest of us, capable and tough. Because that matched the picture of the first man with whom I was blindly in love, for the first two decades of my life.

Dad always stood so tall, with his stereotypical Eastern European features juxtaposing my own (that I had inherited from the brown, stocky brand of my motha’s side). But it was height that I insisted on remembering the most, never measuring him against other men. There had to be other humans larger than dad’s slim stature, so well hidden underneath the boxy cut of the Soviet Army uniform. Just by the mere fact that, for centuries, Motha Russian was famed for repeatedly spitting out giants out of her national vagina — there had to be humans taller than my dad. But no, not from my perspective! Not from where I stood — not from where I looked up, in my blinded worship of him, for the first two decades of my life — never growing past my own 5 feet in height (a feature I had inherited from the brown, stocky brand of my motha’s side).

And he would be the best of them all. Always the highest ranking officer in every room, he would be granted the respect pro bono. So, how do you stand next to a man that gets saluted before even being spoken to, giving him a complete command over the course of the words that would follow? How do measure yourself against someone addressed by his title rather than his name? I tell you how: You fall in love with him, blindly, for decades getting stuck at measuring your own romantic choices against Superman.

We could be on an errand trip to the nearest city — my Superman and I — standing in line at an ice-cream kiosk, when a stranger in civilian clothes would salute my tallest man in the world. Beautiful women (for centuries, Motha Russia was famed for spitting those out of her national vagina as well — in galore) would blush and adjust their hair when father marched past them. (For the rest of his life, he would never surrender that manner of stepping — as if on a chronic conquest: A man on a mission to protect the human race.) And even the harshest of them all — the bitterly disappointed veterans on the benches of Moscow’s parks or the fattened-up, unhappy female secretaries at my lyceum’s administration — they too would melt a little in the esteemed company of my dad, making life seem much easier to navigate than when amidst the stocky, brown brand of my mother’s side.

Oh, how I wish I could’ve dwelled in this blind worship of him, for the rest of my life. But the romantic choices in my own biography — a biography that had happened during the period of separation from my dad, now nearly equaling in length as the first two decades — they have began to catch up with me. And as I continue to fall out of my loves, I begin landing in truth about the very first man with whom I was once so blindly in love.

“And yes, you do mythologize your men,” a man, not as tall as my father, had told me the other day.

And da, herein lies the pattern: Willingly, blindly, I fall in love, worshiping each new romantic choice, pro bono. And when he doesn’t measure against my personal Superman, I fall out of it, quite disappointed but never surprised. For no man can live up to my mythical expectations — not even the Superman that had started them, back in the first two decades of my life.

And nyet, my dad — is not Superman.I just found that out, last night, during one of our weekly phone calls on a typical Prodigal Sunday (by the Russian clocks).

Because, “I’m just a man,” he told me, refusing to echo the matter-of-factness of it all. “And it’s time for you — to give up on me.”

As a matter of fact, he was so matter of fact about it, I didn’t think twice that, like to most of my friends, to him, my writing — was just a matter of fact.

As a matter of fact, I am not flocked by my comrades — other writers — all suspended in loaded pauses in between pontificating on the history of the novel or the future of the industry. We don’t sit around a round table (yes, it must be round) in the middle of the night, playing with nostalgic shticks, like card games, cigars or tea cups with saucers — because we are just so fucking eccentric.

We don’t make fun of humanity while others zealously nod or slap their thighs in a gesture of agreeing laughter; but then, take ourself so very brutally seriously. (Seriously?!). Many of us have gone through love affairs; several — quite tumultuous. But we don’t arrive to coffee shops favored by Europeans while accompanied by mysterious lovers (in scarves or berets) that have inspired a poem or two — a sketch or a lovely line-up of guitar chords — making the rest of us want a piece of that creature. We don’t share lovers, passing them around like a well-rolled joint. And: we don’t dis the exes.

My people and I are a lot more matter of fact, in life. Sure, some of us are stranger than others, worthy to be gossiped about. And yes, we tend to be adventurous, always up for playing, always on the lookout for a good story. Many travel, quite often treating LA-LA as a rest stop, even though we all live around here. Quite a few are in the midst of an art project that will change their lives upon fruition.But we don’t spend our daily lives in some sort of artistic isolation or exhibitionist suffering; slamming down phones and doors if ever we are interrupted. We don’t keep lists of our losses and griefs against humanity — or against our mothers — posted up on the wall, framed.

My people and I: We live, as a matter of fact.

And especially, when it comes to my brothers: They are the simpler of my clan. Rarely do I double-guess their intentions. Never do I wonder about their moods and the words with which they choose to communicate them. Never do I decipher their facial ticks, eventually finding myself in despair, impatience, followed by frustrated judgment. And it’s always quite clear with them that even though they don’t obsessively seek my company; when in my company, nothing seems to thrill them more. (Now, I’ve heard about those moody mothafuckers that torture my girlfriends with their mixed signals and facial ticks in dire need of deciphering. But no such mothafucker — is a brother of mine!)

So, when my baby-brother asked me about writing yesterday, I gave him an answer specific enough to be respectful of him and of the time that had lapsed since last we saw each other; and respectful enough to not sound flippant about my work. (Because my work — I take seriously, not my self. Seriously.) But then, a discussion of our lives, happening as a matter of fact, continued, letting my work be — just a matter of fact.

Later, however, I found myself picking apart the category of men that become my brothers. I am normally quite hard on their gender, especially toward the ones that end up as my lovers. But with my brothers, I never feel the urge to break their balls or to demand explanations; constantly digging for more honesty (but not realizing that no love can handle that much truth). As a matter of fact, everything is quite clear with my brothers and I, and I am never tempted to ask for more clarity. So: I let their mysteries be.

This one — a beautiful child — used to be a colleague of mine. Both of us had worked at a joint that was meant to pay for our dreams while costing them the least amount of compromise. And I would be full of shit if I claimed I was never titillated by his loveliness, measuring it against my body in his tall embraces or against my chest as I would rub his head full of gorgeous Mediterranean hair. I would watch him with others — with other women — and notice the goodness of him. He was respected, always: the type of a man worthy of man crushes from his brothers and dreamy sighs from every girl in the room. His charm would come easily. Never strained, it seemed to cost him nothing. And it’s because that charm came from his goodness — it never reeked of manipulation or his desperate need to be liked.

Here, as a matter of fact, I would be lying if I didn’t think at one point or another about all of my brothers as potential lovers. But somewhere along the way of building the history of intimacy, something would tilt the scale: and we would make a choice to leave our love untamed by so much honesty — it wouldn’t survive the truth.

That something — would take a bit effort to define yesterday, after my rendezvous with my baby-brother expired and we parted, as a matter of fact, never fishing for assurances that we would see each other again soon (because we would). And it would all come down to: Goodness.

Even if not with me, my brothers — are committed to their goodness. Because of their commitment, that goodness happens with ease — as a matter of fact — and it earns them good lives and worthy loves. It earns them — my love, as a matter of fact.

And I’ve never had a dog, but I’ve had enough men to know that no other animal in the world is better suited — for a good man.

It just looks right when you see it: One of those sporty baby-tall boys, tired from a day of conquering the world in the name of his girl, slowly walking behind a leashed creature early in the morning. They both would be barely awake, yawning their sleepy faces into something so fucking adorable — into something that would jumpstart my ovaries into wanting to give life — and they would rapidly blink their kind eyes at the world that they couldn’t wait to get into: A man and his dog — the creatures of such strength and goodness, and of such unconditional devotion, so very different from my own feline predisposition.

Their fur would be equally disheveled, either from sleep but most likely from the roughing caresses that woke them, that day. Before other mortals would summon enough will to get out of their beds, a man and his dog would step out to greet the world firsthand: both of them aging without ever surrendering their innocence (and neither their strength nor the unconditional devotion). I would always want to come close to them, and burry my face in their hair, in all that goodness. If I could, I bet the man’s head would smell like the hand of his girl, ever so lovely; while the dog’s — like his own. And together, they would smell like a home I have yet to build, somewhere on a hill that would overlook the rest of my life — with forgiveness.

Instead, I am stuck watching them from a distance. At least, for now. But willingly, I would smile away at their expense while secretly tearing up from the privilege of being ever so close to all that strength and all that goodness. My ovaries would get jumpstarted into wanting to give life; but there they would be — a good man and his dog — slowly shifting their athletic limbs in the morning, not yet ready for play. But give them a good meal and a tender nod, and off they would go: leaping, running, panting, inventing their games as they went along; yelping contagiously, whimpering for attention; teasing or asking to be teased. And they would both be finally released from having to tone down their strength and their overwhelming enthusiasm. And the world would be theirs for conquering — in the name of their girl.

The dog would pull the master’s hand via its leash, as if saying:

“Come! Be! Love! Play!”

“Let’s!” — the good man would follow; because, being so very different from my own feline predisposition, he would never grow out of his habit for a child’s play. And unlike me, he would never grow up. Thank goodness!

Then, there are those little dogs, completely domesticated and entirely dependent on a man. They remind me of plush toys, with their teary eyes and perpetually stumped little faces. And one would have to be born with a heart of a villain to not want to reach for them, at least; if not sweep them up and stuff them under a coat, next to the heart — as if craving a piece of all that goodness. They are not really my type of dogs, because the world seems too big for them, and mostly full of danger (and that’s not my type of a world). So, they shiver and retreat, seeking protection from larger animals. But then again, in such dependency and trust, I bet I could heal a wound or two on the surface of my perpetually stumped little face. And perhaps, in this life, I would be able to move on a little bit faster — with a tiny creature stuffed under my coat, next to my heart.

The fancier dogs I treat as pieces of artwork. They strut with dignity. They hold their statures with focus and calm. But unlike cats with pedigree, these purebreds still haven’t forgotten the pleasure of some rough play — a bigger child’s play — or of a rough caress. To the contrary, because they are best equipped to win, they cannot wait for it. So, they pull their master’s hand via their leash, as if saying:

“Come! Be! Love!”

From one moment to the next, they are ready to topple you over at the door, after you’ve finished your conquering at the world for the day — or to save your life. And you cannot dare to object to either, because all that strength and goodness — and all that unconditional devotion — dwells in the best of intentions, and sometimes, despite their own.

And that’s just the thing about those sporty good men (good boys) and their dogs: Once a girl earns their unconditional devotion, their own life is no longer a matter of the biggest relevance. They may be in the mood for an occasional rough play — or a rough caress. They may even sometimes be quite child-like in their dire need for a silly toy. But if a girl can give them a good meal and a tender caress, off they would go: conquering the world, in her name.

And with all their strength and goodness — with all that unconditional devotion — they have the ability to restore a woman’s heart, into more life and into more love.

“Mmm, LOVE ice-cream,” you said with an audible European accent that you weren’t even trying to hide.

Quite the opposite: I bet it has worked to your advantage so far, because you don’t throw yourself against your need to control, to plan, to over think, to predict every moment before it happens — over, and over, and over again. In our company of two, there is already one person who has done that idiotically throughout her youth; and frankly, it’s one person too many.

No, sir! You are one to live in the moment. Honestly.

And you do it with such swagger — never for the sake of exhibitionism or selfish gratification; never for the sake of better opinions or for the sake of having to impress. You dwell in consequences of your easy charm. You watch your life happen and unfold, delivering its opportunities to the the tips of your impeccably polished shoes, like the wet tongue of a tidal wave.

Because where you come from, time moves differently: It never matters more than one’s sensibility, and it definitely does not dare to contradict one’s pursuit of pleasures. And so tonight, you took your time: warming up my curiosity with your easy, manly smiles and just a couple of caresses along my arms with the flat surfaces of your nails. The entire night, your gender training revealed itself in my open doors, extended hands, offered-up shoulders; and your gentle guidance of my high-heeled footstep over ditches and uneven pavements. It is your second nature — to be a gentleman. To be a man — is your first.

“We have a saying about a true — how you say it? — ‘gentleman’,” you told me earlier in the night. “Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”

Yes.

Naturally, you would walk me down to my car after midnight; and with you, I wouldn’t even argue. I wouldn’t feel an urge to defend my independence or flaunt my financial capabilities: It’s not in your — how you say it? — “gentle” nature to undermine my life choices anyway. So, I didn’t have to test or forewarn, with you. That evening, you were my man alright, and it was somehow (finally!) also perfectly alright for me — to be your woman.

So, why — when you began to devour your chocolate ice-cream sandwich, after calling my elevator — did you suddenly resemble a young boy on a summer day spent on a river bank with other sunburnt rascals? As I watched you, a thought flashed:

“ADORE.”

It was more of a memory, really. A memory of a young man — utterly adored — who could wrestle my body or mind into submission with his weight or a single flex of his arm muscles; but when the battle was over, I would walk out of his bedroom to find him armed with a fork and a focus, dissecting a sweet I had made for him a few hours prior:

“Mmm, V. So good!” he would always say with his mouth full and a blue-eyed gaze of someone caught in the midst of his defiant joy. “Have some!”

I never would. Instead: I would adore.

Yes.

Or the sound of another, who could kindly cradle me to sleep; then slip out into the kitchen and lick spoonfuls of honey and peanut butter, chugging them down with cold milk. If I heard his commotions in my sleep, I would smile, always — I would adore! — then, toss myself headfirst into heavier dreams. In the morning, he would be back in his manhood, older than me; and I would wonder if I had dreamt it all up, about someone like our son.

And yet another — tougher, stronger, always in control: If he ever rested in my bed at an hour when the August heat finally gave it a rest, I would bring him platters of chilled watermelon and frozen berries; and while he lapped-up, and feasted, and moaned — the same way he had done with my body — I would rub his heavy head on my lap. And, while he slowly landed: Oh, how I would adore!

Yes…

When the elevator arrived, quicker than it would throughout the day when delayed by other mortals, naturally, you held its door open with one arm, while the other continued to maneuver the quickly melting sandwich around your mouth. You would bite and nibble, lick the corners of your lips. I leaned against the cold rail and chuckled, finding myself in the midst of my easily accessible, habitual adoration. The gaze you shot me was somewhat of a warning:

“Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”

By the time there was nothing left in your hand but a wrapper, we had arrived at my destination. I peeled my behind off the rail and made my way to the doors, anticipating, as always, their opening.

“Where are you going?” you said, with a tease and an effortless control.

Quickly you examined the wrapper in your hand for any last bits, crumpled it up, tossed it into the corner; and before I could manufacture a scold or an excuse, you pressed me back into the rail with the now free hand — while pushing every button on the control panel with the other. I laughed. You smiled that easy, manly smile again, moved in on me, looked-up for cameras — and began to maneuver my lips around your mouth.

At first, I kept my eyes open, looking out for an accidental mortal every time the doors slid quietly in their grooves. But you didn’t bother: You bit and nibbled, licked the corners of your lips — and of mine. You dwelled in consequences of your easy charm, now backing them up with skills. With your eyes on me, you’d push more buttons; and I would laugh — again! — into the collar seams of your impeccably white t-shirt.

And by the third time we arrived to the eighteenth floor, I closed my eyes and pushed your back against the control panel…

That woman was a badass! She strutted around her port city, lithe and decisive in her hips, as if she ran that motherfucker. She was one them proud broads, asking no man for help (other than her father); and it was just her luck that by the time she entered the workforce, her country was on that whole socialist equality shtick. So, the broad held jobs that not many women were interested in; and she flourished, climbing whatever level ladders her Communist Party chapter advertised.

She had been a construction worker and a collective farmer in the country. But by the time I met her, she worked as manager at a fish cannery. Oh, I’ve seen that broad at work! From a rustic desk some moron once thought up to paint the color of a stewing swamp, she gave out her packing orders like some women give out their expectations. She refused to be away from her people, so she moved that swampy thing out onto the factory floor, by the conveyor belt; and considering no Soviet machinery ran low on sound, anyone who needed to talk to her would have to holler out their lungs. Nope, that job was not for the dainty-hearted!

But she did have a little corner getaway upstairs, which is where she would sit me down, underneath a black-and-white shot of one drunken righteous leader after the next. For a while there, these leaders would die on us like flies, so she’d leave their portraits leaning against the wall: What’s the point of worshiping a man if he ain’t planning to last long?

And to keep me entertained, while she strutted on the factory floor — lithe and decisive in her hips — grandmother would equip me with a can of black caviar, a spoon; an old world atlas and a pair of scissors. There I’d spend my days, cutting up the world and acquiring the beginnings of my sick misconception that there was no distant corner I couldn’t cut through; no country I couldn’t slice across.

“Thirsty, little rabbit?” grandmother would reappear at intervals with a glass of foaming sparkling water from the dispenser machine outside; or better yet, with a bottle of Pinocchio soda that tasted like a liquid, lemon-flavored Jolly Rancher.

Of course, I’d be fucking thirsty: Gobbling up that caviar was like drinking sea water or licking the lower back of a tanning Brazilian goddess! (Plus, all that cutting of corners! All that wanderlust!) As if to finish training my stomach to handle anything — in case I ever swallowed anything bitter or toxic (a cowardly lover, for instance) — she would rummage in her pockets and whip out a plastic bag of dried calamari rings: My favorite! Like some children with raspberries, I would top each finger with those rings; then, I continue to trace unfamiliar shores and continents, before cutting them to shreds.

What man could possibly keep up with a broad like that?

The one that knew that taming a descendant of a gypsy was a moot point. The one with balls enough to wait for all the unworthy, drooling endless admirers and ex-lovers to flake away: because none of them could handle that hot number in the first place, bare-handedly. The one with a freedom of his own, addicted to circumvent the globe’s ocean as if each round were a growth ring on a tree trunk of his life. The one who’d seen enough, who’d lost enough to know that a good woman is a lucky find; and even if it chills you down to your bones with paralyzing fear or with the breath of your own mortality, you better give it a goddamn worthy try — to not keep her, to not conquer her — but to have a daily hand at trying to be worthy of her staying.

To that man — my grandfather — this woman was meant to be followed. And so he would: on our every Sunday walk to and from the bazaar, if he happened to return home from his circumventing.

She rarely kept company with other women (but then again, could outdrink every man she’d call “a friend”). So, when walking, she’d always go at it alone, just a few meters ahead; perfectly content with the pace of my little feet, yet with a strut of someone running that motherfucker. Sometimes, I’d look back to find my grandfather’s muscular arms with his fisherman’s tan; and from underneath the tattered hat, with a cig dangling on his lips, he’d smile and wink, as if he had just been caught at a naughty secret.

One day, I chose to walk with him, letting my grandmother lead the way, just a few meters ahead. He lifted me onto his shoulders and told me to hold onto his ears:

“Otherwise, you’ll fly away!”

Every once in a while, he would reach above his head and make a crocodile mouth with his hand; at which point, I would pucker up my lips and let the crocodile devour my sloppy kiss.

And from up there, from the first pair of a man’s capable shoulders, I fell in love — in my youthful lust — with a woman. That day, she strutted just a few meters ahead of us, lithe and decisive in her hips; and with each step, her tight wrap-around dress rode up higher and higher, bunching up at her tailbone and revealing the naked back of her knees. A long, shiny, jet black braid ran down from her top vertebra down to the lower back; and the unbraided tip of it would tap each ass cheek as the hips continued to sway and sway, lithely and decisively, making me slightly dizzy with adoration and bliss.

That day, I knew: It was not a bad deal to follow a woman’s lead. (It was delectable, to the contrary.) But it would take some esteem to be worthy of her staying.

What will you be like, the future papa of my child? Will you be tall, but not necessarily dark? Or will you be just competent, quietly but certainly, in the way all good men — with nothing to prove — are?

Yes, I’m pretty sure, you’ll be tall.

“What are you chirping about over there?” my own — tall — father chuckled on the phone last night, “My little sparrow…”

He hadn’t seen me grow up. To him, I am still a child treading on the edge of her womanhood with the same gentle balance and vulnerability as if I were walking along a curb: one foot in front of the other, thrilled and focused, not certain about the destination but quite alright with that uncertainty.

He used to follow me whenever I chose that activity on our walks. Hanging just a few steps back, as if giving me enough room for my budding self-esteem and competence, he, while smoking his cigarette, would be equally as focused at putting one foot in front of the other, upon his own flat ground. And according to him, puddles — were always the height of my thrill.

Besides, with me — it was useless to object. He knew that. It was his own trait: If I got an idea into my little stubborn head, you could bet your life I’d follow through. So, he’d rest, while smoking his cigarette on a bench or leaning against a mossy boulder; or on that same curb marked up with my tiny footsteps. And yes, most likely, I would get my feet wet; and I’d look back at him with a frown:

“Alright, let’s hear it!”

But all that would be given back to me was a grin that my father would be trying so very hard to suppress.

And, the future papa of my child: Will you be of a quiet temperament, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to me; hanging back most of the time, as if giving me enough room for my sturdy self-esteem, but then always knowing when to step up to the plate — just because you will be taller — most certainly, taller! — stronger than me? Just because you will be — my man?

True to my stubborn passion, half way through my teens, I decided to leave for a different continent. That time, it was no longer a matter of exploration (although when wasn’t it, with me?) but a matter of a vague hope for better choices in my youth.

My father knew that: The country of my birth was about to go under, and there would be no more gentle balancing for any of us, but a complete anarchy. Yet, never in that chaos, would I see my father lose his composure. Quietly, he’d take in one merciless situation after another, light up a cigarette and hang back while waiting for the best resolution to become clear. And then, he’d step up to the plate and follow through, true to his quiet, stubborn, competent temperament. My father: The first tall man I’d fallen in love with.

So, when I delivered to him the news of my scholarship for a study abroad (something he’d never even heard of, in his lifetime), quietly, he smoked, hung back and took in the information. Surely, there had to be a million questions chaotically arising in his head: questions related to the unpredictable situations my life was certain to present. But that day, he knew better than to get in the way of my decision to leave. Because you could bet your life I’d follow through. He knew that: It was his own trait.

“Don’t tell your mom I agree with this: She’ll kill me!” he told me that day, suppressed a grin; and we began mapping out our next conspiracy.

And, the future papa of my child: Will you be the more lenient of a parent than me, hanging back while letting our kiddo explore his or her own curbs and puddles? (Because you better be certain our child will inherit my tendency for stubborn passions.) Will you quietly follow, hanging just a few steps back, alert enough to catch, pick-up, sweep off, dust off him or her, right on time?

Will you be more courageous to allow for our child’s falls: Because that is the only way one learns? And will you be calmer, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to me, when it is time for our unconditional acceptance of his or her missteps?

It would be one giant puddle I’d select to tread in my womanhood — an entire ocean, to be exact; and then — a whole other one. No matter his own heartbreak, my father chose to hang back. There would be many falls of mine he would be unable to prevent, a million of questions he couldn’t answer; many chaoses he was powerless at solving on my behalf. But no matter my age — and no matter my defeats or victories — I could always dial in on his unconditional ear.

He would listen, hang back — suppress his tears or a grin — then launch into our next conspiracy.

“Don’t tell you mom I know about this,” he always warned me.

Because besides being an exceptional father, he also knew how to be a man: How love a woman with a dangerous habit for stubborn passions. My father would be taller than her, and always much stronger. Yet, still, he would hang back, leaving all the chaotic emotions up to his wife and giving enough room for her budding self-esteem as a woman — and a mom. And when he’d happen to catch us at our feminine chaoses — or silly conspiracies of our gender — he’d suppress a grin and say: